Field Commission 11

I pull up with my jeep to check Parvana's VCP. The whistle of a 20 mike mike warns me, "dive for it," I say, "incoming."
They do. It lands short by some fifty yards. Lights up the night sky and now it ain't Silent Night, Holy Night anymore.
Flipping my night vision goggles into the on position, I spot a heavy machine gun of centuries ago, just about ready to open fire. I beat them to it, blow the lot away. As the ammo cache goes sky high, we all cheer.
As Parvana and the gang trade small arms fire with Paddy, I set my blaster on phaser tracker and start blowing up the incoming mortar shells in midair.
Angry male Irish voice, "that ain't fair, all that sci fi gear you ***-****s have."
I holler back, "don't like it, try writing to your Member of Parliament, or the Minister of Defence."
"Holy Jaysus, I'm sorry, didn't realize you was Yanks. Cease fire, cease fire, alla youse. These here is Yanks, let's go get the Brits in the next street."
Loud raucous cheers.
I take stock, I have a half inch long scratch from a frag piece, everyone else is untouched. We sit, smoke and watch the next street light up.
A mini Morris slows to a halt for our VCP. I shine the light, just the driver. OY!! And who for a driver!
"Sir, please step out of the car."
He does. I lay him out cold with a night stick.
"Have you lost your ****ing marbles?" Parvana gasps.
"Recognize the face?"
"Nope."
"Well carry on with the VCP, I'm taking the boyo to Intel."
They are ecstatic, over the absolute moon. It's the Spetsnasz officer, arrest of the decade. They offer eggnog and cake. I push it away, I'm getting a really bad feel right now.
I thumb the com device, "Red Two, come in."
"Red Two here."
"All quiet?"
"So far."
"Get out. Right now. I'm getting bad vibes."
"Roger."
Two minutes later, a beep, Parvana is shouting, "holy dying ***** ****er. Got out with zip to spare."
I don't hafta ask, in the background I hear tanks clanking.
"Red Two drive back without headlights, use hand brake."
"Of course, you think I'm ****ing crazy?"
An Intel Captain, with typical Brit understatement, "we've had a report, estimated 50 tanks on Crumlin Road."
I nod.
She laughs, "beat me to it, got your VCP out?"
"Yep."
"Glad you are our ally and not our enemy, have some eggnog, no, no intoxicants in it."
"Thank you. Does it not seem odd? Checking shopping bags and car trunks? Where on earth would they have hidden that?"
"If we knew for sure, we'd have got them already. But a good guess, would be the nearby intermodal terminal, in containers."
"Ok, but surely even if they smuggle in hardware, how on earth do you hide that many crew? Belfast isn't much more than a big small town. That many strange faces would set off alarm bells."
"My guess, isn't foreigners, Irish neoNazis, a coup."
"And these neoNazis just happen to know how to use em?"
"Sunshine, it's a big world, you travel outside, you learn. Now watch the screen."
I see a missile tracking toward a tank. With ridiculous ease, it knocks out the lead tank. A second knocks out the rear.
"Well now," Capt says drily, "nowhere to go, now we negotiate."
Negotiations last two hours. An agreement, total amnesty for all coup participants, frontline or support, in exchange for peacefully handing over the tanks.
So, how did they get that stuff in? Declared the containers were full of scrap metal, to feed the nearby steel mill/shipyard complex.

Field Commission 10

Parvana looks at me oddly, "decided you're a dyke?"
I groan, "you are sooo outa date. This goes great with Brit helmet, take a look."
"Holy dying sheep sh**, I just don't believe it. Not only can't tell it's you. Can't even tell race or gender, you're that obscure." Awkward pause, "is there some problem I don't know about?"
I tell her.
She sums up, "tricky moral position. See if you downcheck, none of us goes, we're all royally pi**ed off. Yet if you go, get recognized, our platoon becomes a target. So what you gonna do?"
"Only one fair way. You simply cannot expect people to take risks unknowingly. I tell them the entire story, show how completely different I look and they vote."
And they did. Long as I agree to always stay with helmet and visor, never opt for beret, they'll buy it.
The CO looks at me, "don't you think that's going a little overboard? Surely it'd be better to stay with American gear?"
"People will know I'm American ma'am, the badges and uniform. My option to switch."
"Dear, I mean no offence, but you look horrible, with or without the helmet, look deathly ill. No wonder those silly Brits always look so pale and unhealthy. Still, your choice, if you feel it's the best way to protect your platoon."
As it turns out, I get support. Parvana does the measurement, it yields several inches more of protection and the entire group opts for Brit.
It isn't my imagination, they change when that gear goes on. Add in the fact the Brits have generously provided cigs during the pre-training period. You see in the British Army, no such thing as a draftee. Once that gear goes on, they stand straighter, speak with more confidence, smoke more and use thrice as much profanity.
I now hafta get used to some people wrapping the F word into a single sentence two or three times. Oh well, they like me, I like them, it'll all work out.
"Enjoy it while you can," I'll grin, "at VCP's we don't swear at civilians."
Well here we are. Somehow all the angst seems meaningless. Hasn't stopped raining since we got here, except for a few minutes. Clouds seem the height of a two storey building. My helmet and visor, which comes to the bottom of my nose, render me as utterly invisible as the other 15,000 troops rumbling around Belfast.
Only one thing distinguishes me, being American. The civvies can't even see me, but they are very polite. It's amazing how many tell us they like us, we do a fair impartial job. I don't bother correcting anyone who calls me Yank. It doesn't offend me anymore. In this context, it's actually a friendly greeting. They go on their way telling us to come back next Christmas.
It's now December 24, the IRA has just declared the traditional Christmas truce. But they politely phone every American contingent with a warning, "you realize we only speak for the Official IRA. There are others - splinter groups - bad people - that don't honor the truce. So stay alert."

Field Commission 9

By the time the Stars and Stripes reporter comes a-callin, I'm back to being plain old me, the homicidal maniac faded away.
"I'm curious," she asks after a bit, "how is it you were so very average before?"
"Well you see," in most laid back manner, "I was starting to get ashamed. My people were passing me. Didn't wanna end up looking like an idiot. So I shot some practise rounds."
It's impossible for her to check. No record is kept of practise rounds because it's not part of your official score, nor is live ammo used and accounted for.
"How many practise sessions did it take to get that good?"
"Bout five dozen."
She grins, "guess your unit will be confident now, knowing you can shoot. And off the record, why is it so many officers are so totally indolent they never do anything except out of fear of shame? I'll bet you have a messy desk too."
I grin sheepishly, don't reply. Whew! Much better than her knowing the real story.
As usual, the authorities get the last word. I receive a forceful letter from the counsellor. Yes I am still permitted to do the Belfast tour. But it turns out she checked my last dozen scores, found the same ongoing pattern.
Immediately upon my return from Ulster, I am commanded to attend one counselling session per fortnight until deemed to be ok. Let me add my amendment to that. Nobody here is ok; til I'm sort of ok, which is good enough.
I pass it to Parvana. Absolutely wicked smile, "wanna show them you've laid the phobia to rest?"
"I am all ears, please tell me how."
"Shoot three civvies in Belfast, all women."
It's so outrageous we both laugh.
"Still, you better hope we don't get jumped by the Ra. Shoot a dozen of the boyos and she will view it as verr-rry Freudian."
"Come on, if that's what is there, and it's shooting, you shoot back."
Her sly wink let's me know she was only teasing.
I'm over at the Brit unit, going over detail with the CO, when the RSM appears. She gasps, stares at my face, takes it in her hand, gently turns it back and forth.
Turning to the CO, "she slated for Belfast?"
"Yes."
"Downcheck her."
"May I ask why?"
"Look real careful. Who does she resemble in history?"
CO blanches, "my God! That's it, you're off the tour."
Baffled I ask, "why?"
RSM grimaces, "call up archives, it'd be ten no eleven years ago." And there, staring at me is my almost identical double.
I ask, "this person is well known?"
RSM spits out, "too bloody right sunshine, read the article."
It was during the Londonderry mega riots. My double was at that time a section commander in 2 Para. Lotta civvies were shot. Investigation put it in the gray zone, that is not wholly legit nor wholly illegit.
"Just a minute," I protest, "I struggled to get this gig. Had considerable problems with the powers that be. If I don't go, my entire contingent stays in Germany. First, no other Black Watch officer is infantry-qualified. Second, none would lead draftees, against their principles. Perhaps we can come to some compromise."
RSM views my face again, "now a woman's head shape is very largely defined by hair. Just a trim won't do it. Only one way to get a radically different look, brushcut."
"Won't I look like a dyke?"
She groans loudly, "you are sooo outa date. You'll look say ten years older, thinner, maybe a bit ill."
"We-ell."
RSM continues, "during the Malaya campaign, was a very practical style. Heat and bugs and all. Lotta those vets liked it, stayed with it. Anyone sees you, will just assume you're a Malaya vet."
"All right, I'll do it, if that's what it takes."
"Also sunshine, opt for British helmet and visor. Your choice if you want to. Obscures you a lot more than the American version. Makes the face look almost pixellated."
I try it on. Stare at myself in the mirror. I don't even recognize me.
RSM grins, "come with me, I'll get you the haircut free, duty related."

Field Commission 8

I am summoned to the CO's office. To my surprise the Brit CO is already there. Ours begins, "no introductions are needed I understand."
"Lt we've been reviewing our recent experiences in Ulster. Now us, been there so long certain patterns seem carved in stone. And so it is, we only gradually realized something. See we are so used to a hundred complaints a day from Prods and Catholics, each claiming their side is unfairly targeted in searches. We just lately realized you Yanks spent a whole summer there, didn't generate a single complaint. People said you were polite, impartial, they liked you."
"I'm not a Yank ma'am, but thank you all the same."
Chuckle, "quite so. To make a long story short, Christmas shopping is always a security nightmare, so many people about with parcels. We are inviting any American units who care to join us. But only if the unit so votes, we don't want anyone to feel put upon. So, your feelings on this?"
"Personally ma'am, I would love to go. It was a good experience. I'm betting 3/4 of my platoon votes yes."
"Well let my know after the vote."
I was wrong, it was unanimous, everyone wants to go.
Same rules as before, no American armor, simply too big to maneuver effectively. 62 American units were polled, all veterans of the summer tour. All 62 accepted.
I triple the time factor on the target range. No I am not being overhyper. The girls are simply bored to death, love the range, and most are already doing a lot more practise than that anyhow.
On the range, we use live ammo. The images that pop up, one by one, are holograms. They don't come at predictable intervals of time and distance of course. The computer scores you, with points based on where you hit, if you hit and how quickly you delivered.
To avoid racial connotations, the hologram appearance is hard to decipher at a distance. That is no obvious Aryans or obvious 100% blacks. Most images could be taken as French/Italian/Afghan; or Americans with about 50-50 mix.
Targets are never children, too demoralizing. To avoid sexism, half of your targets are each. Not in strict alternation, just overall.
I've just finished a round of 50, set down my carbine, grin at Parvana. The computer whirrs and out pops a score card.
She pales, "got unresolved counselling issues?"
"Whaddya mean?"
"Look at that point spread. On male holograms, got 984 out of a possible 1,000 points. In fact, beat anyone else in the unit. Female, scored 612."
I blush.
"Da** well Freudian. You bloody better see the ****ing counsellors before we go to Belfast."
"I should?"
"Two choices pal, either go on your own hoof or I send the score card as evidence," her finger hovers over the button, "we-ell?"
"Ok, you win, I'll go."
Counsellor looks at the card, leans back in her chair, "ok, let's define terms. Overall, your score is remarkably average. But there is no question, when you choose to shoot well, you outdo everyone in the Black Watch. When you don't choose to do well, you're sub-par. So, what do you think this card tells me?"
I blush, "uh well ah ."
"Now look here. Don't for even one moment imagine you can waltz your way outa this with some flimsy excuse. I see two huge problems here. First, if a female terr is carrying a bomb; chances are you hesitate, maybe too long. Second, some poor innocent bystander is likely to get shot, merely because he happens to be male."
"So what do I do?"
"Two options. Either heavy duty psy or bring me a real score card. Get 960 or up on each side and I pass you. Other than that, you're downchecked, outa the Belfast tour."
There is absolute blood in my eye as I pick up the carbine. I hate the entire ****ing world, more than I've ever felt before. Parvana throws the switch and I am ready to kill.
Dimly I'm aware she's taking the carbine outa my hands, "enough, relax. It's done. Your 50 is over, there are no more."
Out pops a card, 993 on male, 999 on female, with the commentary it's a new world record. I don't realize at the time, but my smiling face will grace the pages of Stars and Stripes.
I stroll into the counsellor's office. Comtemptously toss the card on her desk, one word, "happy?"
"My God, I've created a Frankenstein monster. Don't kill too many people."
"You promised, 960 and up. Got what you asked for. Try and weasel out on me and I'll bloody take this right to the top."
"Chill, you're in."
"How'd it go?" Parvana asks.
"Let's go do another ****ing round, not happy, want more."
"Mellow out, you're taking this way too serious. Let's go for a soda and talk."
As we speak of fun times, my overdrive mood cools. After an hour, she asks, "still want another round?"
"Nah, I passed. Good enough, leave it how it stands."

Field Commission 7

Not two minutes later, Capt Simpson, Intel, appears magically at my side, "come on, let's find a coffee and a quiet corner."
We pour, I add a flavored creamer.
Gentle smile, "whenever there is contact that close, we wanna talk as soon as possible, before it fades, while it's still fresh."
I nod.
"Ok, let's review your impressions of the neoSoviets one-by-one."
"All male unit."
"Do you consider that remarkable?"
"Not really, they are segregated, same as we are. Only real difference is what their High Command and ours view as proper roles. Our male units tend to be along the Mex border, watching for drugs and such. They'd use female units for such as that."
"Would you guess why?"
"Not really, every society is different, changes over time. Nother century, maybe they and us have reversed the roles, again."
She laughs easily, "quite so. Other impressions?"
"Had a good hard look at the faces. Now I thought my unit was hard core drunks. They are nothing, penny ante compared to these. I'm guessing three to four times the amount of alcohol consumed per capita in their forces."
She chuckles, "that is usually one of the first things our officers spot. Do carry on."
"I have no health care training, yet I can still spot the signs, the sores on the faces. They're living mostly on bread, meat and vodka. I'm guessing fresh fruit, dairy products and vitamin tablets are rarities over there. Ours may grumble about lousy chow, but you can see the good health in our faces. They get bad food for real, but apparently in sufficient quantity at least."
She nods.
"Compare the state of our uniforms to theirs. No contest. We replace everything faster, including boots."
She nods.
"Entire platoon, one com device. Not like us, one per person."
She nods.
"Those carbines could use a good cleaning. I would hazard a guess they sleep in the same clothes. Laundry - no reason on earth you should be that dirty unless you are fighting a total war. Ordinary patrol - should be lots cleaner."
She chuckles.
"Still, that's men, I guess, pigs."
"Hold on a minute, let's keep your sexist views outa this and get back to topic. Impressions."
"None of what I said really impacts much on what they'd actually fight like. Scruffy or not, still wouldn't wanna fight them."
Smile, "shows good sense, they do look mean. Their cigs any good?"
"Mix a firecracker with sawdust. We definitely lost on that exchange."
She breaks into laughter, "ok now, the $64 question. Your guess, why was that particular officer friendly?"
"He had a new looking decoration sitting right next to the Dagestan ribbon. No doubt our summer in Ulster helped him earn it. To at least some degree, he felt grateful to us."
"Think you could draw the decoration?"
Very slowly and carefully, I do.
She whistles softly, "holy dying sheep sh**, now wonder he liked you. Can I keep this for the file?"
"Sure."
"If you think of anything later, let me know."
"You can tell his are afraid of him. Not at all like our units, mostly informal, laughing and joking with officers."
"Just one thing, if you would be so kind as to keep our little chat private."
"Sure."
"You see Lily, you weren't talking to ordinary infantry, but to Spetsnasz masquerading as infantry."
I gasp.
"Yep by now bet they are eyeballing a hundred photos of your group."
The irony hits me, "well turnabout is fair play. Us, draftees masquerading as regulars. Wonder if they'll figger that?"
She laughs, "probably one of those decorations awarded every three years on average, real scarcity value."
I return to find my platoon in semi-serious philosophical debate. One side is mooting that the neoSoviets are bad drinkers merely because they are men. The other, just as vigorously asserts it would be the stultifying atmosphere over there; that neoSoviet women would be just as bad.
They ask my opinion, but I decline to give. As they push, I wave a hand casually in dismissal, "ever think the truth might be half way between those two points? Our just maybe, it's because booze is the only thing they can buy that isn't in perpetual shortage."
Parvana grins, "yeah, guess you're right. Look at us, spend money on music albums, literature, clothes, restaurants, off duty travel. If there weren't all that stuff, we'd probably drink more."
Nods all around.
Pensive mood, a Pvt starts, "you know, we complain a lot. Yet after today, maybe not so much. Yeah ok, we didn't choose this, but it ain't all that bad."
Two days after maneuvers, I arrive early as usual to do paper.
Capt Simpson, normally a later riser, picks today to show early, quiet tone, "we ran your drawing through HQ. Most interested. They have a few photos for you to look at."
"Well that one there, definitely the officer in charge." I then ID a half dozen others.
"Very good Lily. Didn't have a camera yet you still came up huge. Picked up six times the detail most do in such an encounter. Your troops get much?"
"Sad to say, little beyond the booze and scruffiness."
"Don't feel bad. Always that way, usually only one eagle eye in a group."

Field Commission 6

I'm summoned to the CO's office. She starts quietly, "are you much into following the news?"
"Not really ma'am."
"May I ask why?"
"Pretty much the same stuff again and again ma'am. Enough of that already in life."
She chuckles, "quite so. But you are aware, perhaps of the significance of a year ending in 90?"
"Ma'am let me guess, Battle of the Boyne is to be re-enacted."
She frowns, making her look ten years older, "what I say goes no further, understood?"
I nod.
"Brit Intel has picked up some heavy vibes, handheld neutron bombs. Now if the Unionists were boasting about anything at this point, it could all be seen as bluster. But they aren't. In fact, they are abnormally quiet. Not even a hint of the usual annual sabre rattling leading up to the glorious Twelfth of July."
I groan aloud.
She drops her voice, though not necessary, "we even have an understanding with the neoSoviets."
I raise an eyebrow.
"Their recent Dagestan and Chechnya re-flare-ups are hurting. The Kremlin itself made the offer, a summer of mutual peace, complete with a small number of observers for verification."
"Which means ma'am, both sides are free to flood their trouble zones, assuming they trust the level of mutual verification."
"The decision is no American armor in Ulster, simply too big for those narrow streets. We're scraping together all the infantry we can to help."
"What duties could we expect ma'am?"
"Nothing hardcore, Brit Paras and SAS (Special Air Service) will do things like raiding suspected locations. Americans would be used on things like VCP's (Vehicle Check Points.) To sweeten the offer, they are offering free cigarettes for the duration."
I grin, "talk about an offer you can't refuse ma'am. Everyone prefers Brit and German cigs to the 'camel poop' they get."
She laughs, "ok, free to tell the troops it's Ulster. Free to point out the historical significance of a centenary, especially powerful among those trapped in the past. But the rest, the neutron bombs and the neoSoviet agreement, not a breath."
"Yes ma'am."
A hearty cheer goes up. One sums it up best, "thank Bloody Christ we finally get something to do. And Brit ciggys - a sweet bonus."
"Ok gang, now target practise, this time some of it with rubber bullets."
We spend two months in Belfast, on VCP's. Nothing happens, nada. Two possible reasons: the Brits found the bombs, or the huge troop presence intimidated Unionist extremists, or both.
Still it is not a waste. Good practise and developed good friendships with the nearby Brit unit.
Our fall maneuvers, a surprise, friendly waves from our colleagues across the Iron Curtain. From a short distance, a Russian officer tosses a pack of cigs to me, over the wire.
I reach in my pocket, take out a pack and throw it back.
"Ok gang," as I pass em around, "let's see how the enemy lives."
He too distributes them around, in good English, "see you next time Yankee."
"I'm definitely not a Yankee sir."
He laughs easily, "quite so. Robert E Lee would turn over in his grave if he heard what I just called you. Please forgive me."
We both laugh and turn away.

Field Commission 5

All of Monday is shot as I listen to the platoon's stories of the big rumble. Not that it really matters. By now paper is up to date. And as far as them, there's little more than rotational target practise and PT sessions. Target they like; PT they hate, even though it's only two 40 minute sessions per week.
So what exactly is my job to them? Remember the Captain? Same, they're too macho to go to the counsellors so they bend my ear.
And yet who am I to be answering all this stuff? Come on, it's not like I'm the poster girl for sanity or social skills. But gradually I realize what I'm doing. Almost everything has a parallel to things in the novellas I read as a techie. So I just base my advice on what happened in the novella and it sort of works. Nothing works for real in the army, never has, never will. But my advice keeps the wolf away from their door and that's all they expect, or care about.
I don't want my sister officers to get resentful over my sparkling up to date paper, so I devise a strategy. Never put anything in a desk drawer anymore, leave it all on top, looks horrendous.
As I observe others carefully, I can spot two others doing the same. Three phony paper stacks, rest are real. But we all look equal and that's what counts.
Gradually I realize nothing matters. Yes I get less money, but make more and it's mostly taxed away anyhow.
My life slides into a pleasant little routine, not a lot different than before. Real work is 5 hours a week, 5 mornings of one hour each. Resta my time, it's all social.
The Captain walks by, "gotta admire you, look at that terrible desk, but you never get ruffled over it. Some of the girls lie awake, worry over paper."
"Surely there are more fun things to worry over."
She laughs and I join in.

I arrive about 15 minutes early for the Ulm meeting. The Major in charge eyes me curiously, "your CO says you command all the draftees in Black Watch. How is that working out?"
"Ma'am it would be a lie to say smoothly. Nothing in the army is smooth. But no worse than any of the other officers."
"May I make a suggestion?"
"Certainly ma'am."
"Say little or nothing for the first three sessions."
I'm already starting to catch on.
"You see, talk that way, the rest will hate you. But listen, learn their problems. After 3 meetings, you and I will talk, decide where to go."
I nod.
"When I was younger, had draftees, same experience as you. But if I ever try to say that, they just groan, tell me I'm out of date, out of touch, it's all different now. Well, abandon hope all you who enter in."
I laugh, Dante always draws a laugh, and she joins in.
A Prussian Guardsman upon a parade square would be proud of me. Takes that much iron discipline to keep a straight face. As my insides convulse with the desire to burst out laughing, my stern upbringing comes to the fore. Think back to dealing with the parents and paste on the wooden face.
I see the wisdom of the Major's injunction against my free speech. Quite frankly I would not trust myself to speak.
Gradually it starts to change. The dirty nasty tricks the draftees play on these officers acquire a sameness, a pattern.
And now I see the real problem. It simply is not the fault of these outraged junior officers. In each case, it is the fault of the CO, for lousy selection.
See my CO chose me as being most likely to cope. These were chosen as a punishment detail, for troublemakers.
To change anything means changing the attitude of the senior officers. Meaning good luck, hafta wait til that generation retires.
As we exit, Maj sends me a signal to linger, "sooo, watched your eyes, you scoped it first time."
I pause, uncertain how open to be.
"Please I'd appreciate your take."
"Ma'am no blame attaches to anyone in this room. They are simply unsuitable. Any blame would belong to those who actually chose them."
She gives me a hug, "you're wise, now you see my problem. Same time next month."
I'm too uptight to want to shop, yet in no rush to get back. Lotsa time for the short train hop before supper. I adjourn to a cafe and order an Italian soda, ponder.
Yes, mine give me trouble and lots of it. But that is rambunctious young people. Absolutely nothing is personal, no dirty tricks pulled on me. Mine give me not one iota more trouble than the regulars give their officers, with their various drunken hijinks.
By anyone's reckoning my tour so far is a success. I have their respect.
Upon my return, I spot Parvana, "Parvana, tell the platoon we're all going to the bar after supper. I'm buying three rounds for everyone. After that, on their own, if they want to stay."
She looks at me oddly, "you feeling ok?"
"Never better, just tell them."
She and I are the only ones who leave after 3.
As we walk back together she asks, "meeting ok?"
"Oh you bet."
"You see in a remarkably good mood."
"Yeah guess so."
"Anything unusual happen?"
"Got to see the world through the eyes of others."
"You've changed, you really have. At first when you became an officer, all doom and gloom, pi**ing and moaning. Now you like the gig. So career officer?"
"Likely."
"Tell you a secret, if you don't pass it on."
"Parvana, I swear on a stack of Bibles."
"Ain't stopping when my hitch is up. Far too profitable and fun to quit."
"My! You've changed too!"
"Yep."
I'm unsurprised to hear no one got into any trouble. See now I know the difference. In the Herrlingen bar they are treated as "our gallant American allies, here to help protect us from the evil neoSoviet Empire". In the Ulm beer hall, they are treated as Yankee po' whites. Bit of a twist in Ulm, see the Blacks get sympathy from the Germans, just don't get the disrespect. But any whites, viewed as absolute lowlifes for choosing a career like that.
Same parallel as the committee meeting. Give respect, most times you get it back. Give disrespect, you get it back, sometimes overt, sometimes covert, but always there.
The Capt chugs along, obviously hung over, "I ah learned something last night. See I make more money than you, have less people, I could afford to buy a couple rounds. Seems to work for you."
Well, touching or what?
"I don't believe it, even seeing it with my own eyes. You got draftees and they still like you."
"Take away labels, we're all just people."
"Yeah guess so. So, how'd you pick army?"
"Too short for Navy, eyes subpar for Air Force, too lacking in body mass index for Marines."
She laughs, "yeah I hear you. As if anyone with an ounce of sanity would choose army. I was promised glorious adventure. Instead it's all Admin. What a bunch of lying b***ards!"
We both laugh.
"Still," she grins, "least these people, easy to collect the bill end of the month."

Field Commission 4

Parvana says, "anything you want to eat at the bar, I'm buying."
"They make a lovely Kalbschnitzel (veal cutlet). To what do you owe this newfound prosperity?"
With a theatrical flourish she hands over her pay stub.
I gasp loudly, "that's regular Cpl salary, regular tour pay."
"Yep."
"Friend there ain't nothing free in the world. Means they extended your hitch. What all did you sign?"
"Just a receipt for keys and handheld."
I raise an eyebrow.
She protests hotly, "you have the computer profile to call up Personnel file on any in your command. Do it."
We walk over to the shared terminal.
"Ok still shows draftee. But that proves nada. You see, pay function is lots faster than Personnel file. This very moment, your form could be in a keypunch stack."
"You can check rulings, adjudications. Do it."
"Looky here. Ruling on any draftees who pass the Thunderflash test. Salary and benefits upgraded to regular level, but remain draftees. Official army rationale, they will be so pleased with their new status, that most will choose to stay on anyway. How bout that? You get to buy the Cadillac but only hafta pay for the Edsel."
Serious look, "I have detected in you, all day, a morose bitten attitude. Care to talk with a friend?"
For answer I open a drawer, draw out three things: old pay stub, today's stub and a notice from the Supply Sgt.
She gasps, "holy sh**, you were at notch 3 for a Spec 4, now bottom of Lt. You get lots less money, earn less than me. Take you 2 years just to catch up to where you were. And you people gotta pay 600 clams for that crazy dress uniform? 3 deductions of 200? Unreal."
I groan, "to add insult to injury I will use it all of thrice per year. To top it off, I don't even have it yet. Still altering it to my small size, but they're already deducting for it."
She twists a smile, "wanna know what is really ****ing ironic?"
"I'm all ears."
"During the test, was me who was panicky, ready to run in circles and go crazy. You were calm cool did the right stuff. Yet I come out a big winner and you get screwed blued and tattooed. And look at that ****ing stack of paper. So what you gonna do?"
"The time. If it doesn't get any better, end of my hitch I'm gone. Good money for elec techs on civvy street."
"Let's go now, get a table before they're all gone." Giggle.
"What's so funny?"
"They ain't even found a replacement for you yet. So any repairs, you gotta do em. Should demand both cheques."
"In your dreams."
We never like the bar scene the weekend after payday. After a cutlet and a beer, we leave early. That weekend I kill off 3 more pieces of hate mail. But I feel cheated. Coulda been 3 novellas. Used to be.
Monday brings - surprise - more trouble. Seems 3/4 of my command is being held by the city cops in Ulm. On our side was some 200, the French unit some 250, but we clearly won.
Well I muse, least it means they paid attention during unarmed combat class. And if the legendary Black Watch is suddenly called into action (ie neoSoviet invasion), I won't be the only officer with egg on my face. Yes the ground support will be rather thin on the ground. But also half of them armored cars will be empty. So here's hoping cousin Ivan doesn't choose today to come a-callin. But then, my guess, he's probably just as wiped by vodka this morning.
After this muse, I'm reaching for another paper when the next cubicle Capt rolls her chair to my entrance.
"Rough weekend?" I ask.
"Hangover with a capital H. Oh well, least I wasn't in the big bash."
"How so?"
"Actually turns out I left just 5 minutes before it got going."
We both laugh.
"You know," she starts earnestly, "this is insane, compared to civvy street. Did you know back home I was a CPA? ...."
I groan inwardly. Instead of hearing this, I should be duelling with the paper dragon.
It takes til morning coffee dealing with her. Something in her manner suggests she will be a repeat customer for my sympathetic ear.
Gradually other officers trickle in, looking bleary and weary. Resta the morning lotta black coffee gets drunk as cubicle village is host to raucous conversation.
But after lunch the most debilitated go for a nap. The place is quiet and I kill 2 more hate mails. I'm getting better, can spot likely short cuts.
At 4:00 pm the CO drops by my cubicle, friendly smile, "so how is it going?"
I show her the results.
"Good. Excellent. Doing lots better than I expected. And cheer up, nothing more coming. What you got was only stuff already on its way. Nother few weeks, be totally ok."
I nod.
"I don't like to preach, so I won't. But learn from experience. See if you're ever behind, it's hell on earth."
"Read you loud and clear ma'am, I can assure you, I won't live through this again, will keep it up to date."
"Oh but you will have problems, coming back from annual leave. But better once a year, than all year." Pause, "I ah always hate to bring this up. People loathe it, with an absolute passion."
I steel myself for the worst.
"You know," she continues earnestly, speaking quietly, "I've been asked to name one officer as a committee member."
I grooooan inwardly.
"See we're trying to figure ways and means to make ourselves more attractive to draftees. Since you are the only officer in the entire Black Watch who understands this concept, you are the obvious choice."
So, what you gonna say to that? "Well ma'am, frankly I'm flattered by your confidence in me. Do my best. When and where do they meet?"
"Once a month, in Ulm."
Cool, get a free train ride and a chance to do some fun shopping when stores are uncrowded.
Tuesday morning, Parvana smiles wickedly, "here's hoping cousin Ivan doesn't choose today."
"That bad huh?"
Laugh, "the lot got 7 days, D&D. But that flu, people in sick bay, you and I are all that's left."
"Well go find something to amuse yourself but stay outa trouble, I got paper to do."
"Which do you want? Amuse myself? Or stay outa trouble? Can't do both."
"Smart ass. Ok choose stay outa trouble."
"Party pooper!"
No sooner does she leave than the Capt rolls her chair to my area. Sad look, "got this letter from back home. ...."
Why me God? Life as an elec tech was so much fun.
She departs and another officer appears, seeking advice on one particular form.
Yet another interrupts us, collecting a dollar for the group lottery fund. Pleasant smile, "Lily, better join in. You got any idea how much paper would land on you, if the group won without you."
"Read you five by five. Don't ever leave me out. When I go on leave, I'll pay in advance."
Smile, "did you know the Ancients were actually mooting around the concept of a paperless society. Just did not work."
"Oh?"
"Yes why read some of Alvin Toffler, back in Antiquity. Future Shock. Third Wave." She spends half an hour on this concept, leaves and it's back to the person seeking my advice.
As this officer leaves, a memory hits me. In a novella, one character was an editor in the New York publishing scene. He was so swamped with people problems, he simply stayed one evening a week to do paper.
So what about me? Lousy idea. I'm a morning person, fried by supper. Some other officers try evenings, so maybe you would not get quiet.
Just a minute. Suppose I showed at the mess soon as it opens. That's one extra hour every day. Might make a dent.
It works. End of the week I've zipped through the entire list. Just in time for my people to get out of jail.

Field Commission 3

Friday lunch we've finished re-calibrating everything the Black Watch owns. We're ready to roll, if and when maneuvers are declared. Officially not a word is said. The rumor mill, as always, has a story. These babies gulp so much fuel we will be rationed to one week of maneuvers every three months.
And so it is Brenda and I climb into car after car looking important. Once inside I take out a novella and she looks at porn on her handheld.
As weeks slide by with nothing ever happening, I quietly watch all around me. Soon I spot the patterns. Everyone below the rank of Sgt has an idyllic life, a life of total indolence. Sgts and officers are completely bogged down with paper.
I make a mental note to never rush for advancement. When it comes, guess you gotta live with it. Meantime, they have a wonderful library for such a small base. Also I subscribe to a sci fi monthly and a mystery monthly. When done, I pass em on to my infantry buddies.
The foreign tour pay turns out to be a little more than I thought. So every fortnight I take the gang for beer.
Gradually I notice the draftees change. See they get tour pay too, not as much as us, but lots better than draftees back home.
Their resentment fades, not totally vanishing. They almost like the army, but would punch out your lights if you were absurd enough to vocalize that thought.
One tiny notice on the board dispirits everyone. Maneuvers are cancelled, fuel needed elsewhere, no further explanation given.
It takes its toll. About 200 of the girls hang around a big beer hall in Ulm weekends. That Saturday they get into a mega rumble with a nearby Brit unit, also grounded for lack of fuel.
In the end the CO sentences each to a day of KP. Why not more? There is only so much room in the kitchen.
The Brit CO sentences her offenders to two additional PT sessions.
But a change has come over things. Indolent laid back is gone; replaced by bored and pi**ed off.
Finally, maneuvers, the very week after Brenda departs. So here's hoping that I the only elec tech don't get swamped.
I need not have worried. Sum total of 20 minutes mobile repair, mostly stuff shaken loose. Resta the week just ride around and enjoy the scenery.
Our very last day the CO's jeep driver is suffering cramps, gets Parvana to replace her. I'm sunning myself during a halt when they pull up. Pleasant tone the CO says, "come with me. Red Four is getting real wonky GPS readings."
Finally something to do; joyfully I climb aboard.
Fifty yards later, we hit a land mine. Loud explosion. When the smoke clears, CO is nowhere to be seen. Parvana is very much alive but the jeep motor ain't.
Absolutely nothing looks familiar. No roads, powerlines, any of what modern people are used to seeing.
"Bet the ****ing blasters don't work," Parvana says uneasily.
I withdraw from holster, set low, aim for a nearby tree trunk. Nada, not even an on light. Both our watches have stopped, GPS is blank.
Uneasily I start, "reckon it was neoSoviet incoming? Start of an invasion?"
"Nope, woulda had that trademark whistle sound. Ain't them. You're the high priced help, you guess."
To stall for time, I take out a cig pack, "let's share one. Might be awhile."
"You don't ****ing know! They spend half a zillion dollars training you and you don't ****ing know!!!!"
"Chill. Ain't gonna help, getting all uptight."
"You're in charge, you decide."
"Go uphill odds are you find zilch, if you're lucky a shepherd. Downhill, better odds, connect with a road, river, railroad or coast."
Sarcastic tone, "well I am delighted to see the army is getting good value for that Spec 4 salary and tour pay. Not just another pretty face, a brain lurks behind there. Lead on oh great Einstein."
"Blow it out your ass. Just you and me, we gotta survie, stay friends, stay together. So forget rank."
She looks at me, smiles, "ok I agree. Downhill makes sense. As your pardner, not your subordinate."
I put out my hand to shake, she takes it warmly, then we start to walk.
After fifty yards the illusion simply vanishes. We're back on the same road in Germany.
CO grins, "come on, pour coffee, we'll talk."
So it was only virtual reality. I add a flavored creamer, wait for her to start.
"First I was the only witness to what happened, I waited til we were around the bend. Either of you ever hear the term Thunderflash?"
I reply, " ma'am in Antiquity, Canadian Army term or slang - I don't know which - for a training grenade, not a real one."
She chuckles, "I'm guessing you're the only one in the entire Black Watch who reads the historical column in Stars and Stripes."
We all laugh.
"The important thing is not what really happened, but the perception. If you'd seen through the virtch, it wouldn't be a valid test. But you bought the illusion, could have been anywhere, cave man days, ancient Rome, World War 2 Germany. So you passed, and with flying colors. Did what was necessary, with far less BS than most, did it fast, started right away."
Parvana and I look at each other, it starts to sink in.
"There will never ever be another fake, you are only tested once. So next time, could be a land mine left over from WW6 or neoSoviet incoming. You are outa date in your beliefs. They've engineered it silent now, the whistle sound is obsolete."
Parvana blushes.
"When we test, it is never outa idle curiosity but need. Parvana we are short one section commander, that's you Cpl now. Lily, I just never know what to make of you. You have an absolute talent. Just never seen a regular that draftees have an ounce of respect for. And since our platoon commander was sent home medically, that's you. Lt in charge of ground support, starting right now."
Politely I reply, "thank you ma'am." Inwardly I groan, talk about deja vu. The wholesaler scenario all over again.
"So party is over Lily. I understand the previous Lt left rather a lot of undone paper. There are no fewer than a dozen pieces of HQ hate mail on my desk, undone paper in that area."
I raise an eyebrow.
"To help the process along, I have taken the liberty of numbering then in order of priority. Now drink up, Red Four really does have wonky GPS."
What an anticlimax! Loose connection, spot in in five seconds.
Payday comes. I'm morose as I sit in my tiny cubicle. I am in the throes of battle with what the CO labelled #4 hate mail. But in the meantime three more arrived. We-ell least I'm breaking even, not giving up ground to the enemy.
From a distance I see the swagger in Parvana's step, ridiculous, like an old time cop movie. So lemme guess, she either got laid or killed someone. Maybe both.
She stops at my cubicle, sees no spare chair, simply helps herself to the next cubicle chair and plants her butt, "so y'all see what the mess is serving tonight?"
"Bet that stuff has been in a warehouse since days of Custer."
She laughs, "get the history right. Freeze-dry hadn't been invented then. Still I'm guessing some of that stuff has been round since Westmoreland."
I laugh.

Field Commission 2

Well you can forget a lotta jobs; anything involving social/style. But I had one ace in the hole - 100% on Grade 12 math. Exactly what the pharmaceutical wholesaler wanted for order picking. Style meant nothing - clean white uniforms came from the linen rental.
For the first six months, it was an almost hypnotic level of tranquility. Never a hurry - accuracy counts far more than speed.
But the Fates rarely let anyone enjoy such for long. I was summoned to the Oval Office, given no choice, informed henceforth I would be training new people. For the same salary, of course.
Well there are thousands of products here, many very similar. Throw in a lower than average wage level and you get - surprise - higher than average turnover. A revolving door. Soon as they are trained or half-trained, they're gone.
I am hugely surprised to find some of these trainees actually view me as management, as part of the problem. They'll say, "why don't you tell them to raise wages 2 or 3 dollars an hour."
Me? Get real. Who am I?
Management presents me with my 30th victim er I mean trainee. As I see Parvana's face, I make a resolution. If she quits, I'm knocking on management's door. Not to debate company wage policy of course, I'm not that brave. To tell them I've had enough and wish to return to order picking.
At the end of her first shift, we're changing in the locker room. She gasps, "I don't believe it. You actually gone wear that?"
I look at her frostily.
"Can't imagine you find many guys dressed like that."
"I would suggest you mind your own business."
She shrugs, "your funeral, wanna live like that. And don't put tons of effort into training me. Payday I'm gone, just need textbook money. Think I'd hang around a pi**ant place like this?"
I laugh and she joins in. On the way home, it just does not seem so funny anymore. How on earth am I gonna get up enough nerve to tell them I want my old job back? I toss and turn all night.
Two days later all is irrelevent. My hand shakes as I open the official brown envelope ordering me to show for lottery draft selection.
There being nothing wrong with me in the physical sense, and the army not caring about your fashion sense because they have their own, I am taken.
Following exams, I am summoned to the office of an earnest young Captain. Her eyes go bigger as she looks into my file. Good marks?
Affable smile, "ok what you should know. There are two different armies, the Edsel one and the Cadillac. Most people get Edsel. Two year draft hitch. Occasional riot control at the Legislature. Fill sandbags the odd time of flood. Sometimes a forest fire. Mostly just dead boring.
"Math and sci skills as good as yours, you get the option to choose Cadillac. There's a price, have to agree to stay five years. But, that is two years of technician training, followed by an enjoyable three year tour of duty in Germany."
I'm already weakening.
She continues, "you already have proven private sector experience, leadership and training. Make Sgt faster than most would."
I shrug, why not? No one else seems to want me.
I am selected as electronics tech and will commence training on all the various gear that an armored car unit uses.
It is an absolute blast, I love it. Not only the work, the social life, get to meet other geeks.
As regulars, we collect 2 1/2 times the salry of draftees. So, when off duty, we get to frequent expensive restaurants as a group.
Graduation day comes all too soon, a crashing disappointment, gotta say goodbye to all my friends. Meet the odd one from time to time.
I did ok in the cut, assigned to the prestigious Black Watch, who are about to commence a German tour.
As everyone mills around on the tarmac, I spot a familiar face. Parvana will be one of our ground support infantry.
Now I could laugh, after she snooted me out last time. After all, she's a Pvt and me a Spec 4. But I'm not that way, just not into grudges. So I simply strike up a friendly conversation.
We board the giant transport, buckle in side-by-side.
"Tell me," I ask innocently, "how is it draftees get a German tour?"
She pulls a face, "and what in the flaming hell do you think the entire ground support is but draftees? You think any of them smart ass regulars would dirty their hands with that?"
I blush, "hey look, I meant no offence. I didn't know, thought the whole Black Watch was regulars. I'm sorry."
"Oh hell, I didn't take offence. Just none of you geeks got beans for social skills."
I laugh uneasily, am saved from further conversation by the running up of the engines.
By the time we can converse again, all appears ok. She speaks of university days and me of tech training.
As our flight continues, I am immensely relieved by events. See there is only one other elec tech. Her scenes are leather dyke and drugs; my indulgences, reading and restauranting. So while we work together ok, there's little scope for off duty friendship.
But Parvana is a reader when she can afford the time, so I am in luck.
We're assigned to a small base outside Herrlingen, a small village just west of Ulm in the Schwabian Alps.
We arrive Friday afternoon. As we finish supper, I grin at Parvana, "just half a mile to walk. Come on, let's get a beer."
She blushes, "you regulars got bags of money, I'm broke."
"Oh come on, I'll buy, bring your squad."
The five of us set out. We stop at a bar/restaurant not 100 yards from the grave of Erwin Rommel, the legendary Desert Fox of World War 2 fame.
I buy the grunts a couple rounds. As we talk, I gradually realize something. They are warming up to me, like me, not how they view most regulars. I just bought the world's cheapest life insurance. Any trouble, they'll help me first. I make a mental note to treat them every month.
As I return from the bathroom I feed coins into the vending machine. At a point in the conversation where no one is looking at us, I discreetly pass the pack of cigs to her, mouth, "pass em round." She nods her thanks.
Monday breakfast, the other elec tech Brenda joins me, looking drugged out.
"Tired?" I ask.
Laugh, "you ain't whistling Dixie. Huge S&M circle in Ulm," spreads jam mega thick on her toast, "you and me, four days work to re-calibrate everything."
"You mean different elevation and humidity?"
"You got it, pain in the ass!"
Breezily I reply, "that's what we get the big bucks for."
She looks at me oddly, "try reading a newspaper from time to time. You just been defrauded, big time. Kinda electronic skill we got, at least double the pay on civvy street."
I gasp, but then reply, "still and all, it is them gave us the skill. Not like we joined knowing it."
"Still finish your hitch, get the hell out. Don't waste your time on this garbage. Nother few months, I'm gone."
As we eat, I ponder, am I gonna get all bent outa shape? No, I made a deal. They gave me something, which has a lotta value, and of course there is a price to pay. I see no reason to resent the army.
We're in the motor pool. As we climb aboard one car she grins, draws out a precision screwdriver, "we could hotwire this babe. Send that smart ass Lt Peterson spinning back in time."
"I hope you're joking. What bout the resta her crew?"
"Blast, never thought of that. No, I wouldn't wannt do that," nother wicked smile, "let's you and me take her for a spin. You can see the world before restaurants and literature."
"Read your history. Cave man days, lucky to live to age 30. Ever hear of sabre tooth tigers? What if our blasters are disabled by the time jump?"
She laughs, "party pooper." Then she winks and I realize she was only teasing me, wouldn't have done it.

Field Commission 1

Tone:
Violence - many deaths as depicts future war. Still, avoidance of gruesome, of blood and gore.
Profanity - as always with this blog, stars ****. Expect a lot more stars this time. See some previous stories covered the fun and irony of mil life. This portrays a week of total war.
Still, I believe it is suitable for children. First and foremost, it is simply a story of two friends, of loyalty, of staying together.

In my family, the newspaper is only bought Sunday; main purpose, the week's TV listings. Neither mother nor father is into reading much. And of course I'm not even allowed to look at it - some bad pictures in there.
He leans his smelly, unwashed, 80-pound-overweight self further into the sofa, puffs on his cigarette. As he turns a page he gasps, "holy sh**."
"What?" she asks.
"This picture. That slime, acts like he's sooo much better than everyone. Eleven thousand, he-ell we could beat that."
She reads the caption haltingly, "Mr John Smith, in front of his house, as he awaits the truck to pick up empty beer cans. This newspaper has verified the math, he has 11,000."
This gets them arguing, how soon could they pass that? They spend a long time in basement, unable to calculate, arguing of course.
Finally they call me down. In two minutes I've counted, multiplied the stacks and proclaim 9,360 empties.
For the next few months it is their total obsession, doing a re-count every fortnight. They decide to roll it up to an even 12,00o then call the paper.
The rows of cases are neatly stacked on the sidewalk. The reporter does the count and I double check. Then several photos of the two of them hamming it up. They look disgusting.
They are so proud they steal 10 newspapers from the box, for the price of one paper.
That very Sunday night a sound wakes me. Our house is end lot to an alley. Anyone stopping there, idling the motor is usually up to no good.
Both bedrooms - mine and parents' - face the side alley.
A bright light shines through the venetians, blinds me. A voice, older, male, native, sounds kind, says, "just the little girl. Leave her alone. Check the next room."
I hear metal snick. Angry young native male, "she's a witness."
Sharp tone, the older man, "don't be a moron. She's blinded by the light. Can't see your face. Now move."
For what seems all eternity, but is probably two seconds, there is silence.
Matter of fact tone, they young man says, "yep, you're right."
Seconds later, I hear the next bedroom window being broken. From TV movies, I know the sound of a Thompson submachine gun. There's two of em, blazing away.
As the jeep pulls away, I ponder, should I call the cops. Why bother? With all that noise, they'll soon show. I've got enough good sense not to look in the bedroom, got enough nightmares already.
It doesn't take Einstein to figger what happened. Father was recently boasting to his swinish drunken friends of ripping off native guys in a drug deal. So, he was really dumb getting his photo in the paper.
My original intent was to tell the cops what little I knew. So why didn't I? First, I could see they were racist. Use the word "native", they'll arrest and harass every native they don't like. Second, it ain't like the parents were any fine upstanding citizens. The world will be a better place with those troublemakers departed from it. Third, I feel a sense of loyalty to the older man. He spared my life, didn't hafta. Could have agreed I was a witness, blown me away.
I stick with my story, only the rattling of the Thompsons woke me. It's obvious both cops sense I'm lying. The young guy is in an absolute fury, bound and determined to drag the story outa me. The older tones him down, sense of chivalry.
After hours of questioning, they give up, turn me over to Social Services. There is only one living relative, Aunt Franny. She lives alone, on her pension, after a career as a government clerk.
On that day, everything changed for me. With the parents, I always behaved outa fear. Different kinda fear with Franny. Fraid she'll get sick and die, or sick of me. Afraid of the whole foster parent routine, which has a terrible reputation.
Before I had been hopelessly out of any style, but it didn't matter. Inner city neighborhood, kids were lucky to get enough to eat. So no fashion police at my school.
Franny lived in a more prosperous area and had zero concept of any style. As I showed for school in stuff she had sewn which was fifty years outa date, I expected the very worst.
Yet, it didn't happen. Looking back, I can see why. The girls simply decided I was victim of a fundamentalist upbringing and moved on to likelier targets. As if I was so far outa their game, they would look ridiculous laughing at me. Akin to laughing at some poor kid stuck in a wheelchair, just not a good thing to do.
So while I was left in peace, I was also alone and very out of date. Not just style, attitude, thought. Looking back, comparing I'm 2 generations being my cohorts in social mores.
Now Franny herself was more old fashioned than most her age. Didn't own a TV - believed it was the devil flickering images.
Time dragged with the speed of molasses at the North Pole. I was forever staring at the calendar, wondering if she would live long enough for me to finish high school.